


Mos Eisley

by dearjoanwallace



Category: Creed (Band), Matchbox 20 (Band), Red Hot Chili Peppers (Band)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 08:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10590183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearjoanwallace/pseuds/dearjoanwallace
Summary: People lie. The Chili Peppers learn this the hard way, and may not live to tell the tale.





	1. Friendly Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Mos Eisley 
> 
> By Kellyanne Lynch  
> 5/14/01, 11:45 PM - 6/12/01, 4:43 AM
> 
> The Longest Stinking Disclaimer Known to Humankind: You know everything that happens in this story? Welp, I made it up. Yup, every bleedin’ word of it. If any of the events in this story actually happened, TOTALLY co-ink-E-dink. The story may be all made up, but the members of the bands, (i.e., the Red Hot Chili Peppers, matchbox twenty, and Creed), are all so very real. If you didn’t know this already, boot to the head. Minor characters, (there are a boat load in this one), are all crazy figments of my imagination. BUT THEY SEEM SO REAL!!! If any of my imaginary friends sounds like yourself or someone like you, again, TOTAL co-ink-E-dink. My mission in creating this story, (yes, I have to make it sound important), is to 1) provide myself with hours of fun. 2) hopefully provide entertainment to other people (esp. Chewable Morphine, Fastfood Junkie, and Chilipeppergurl). 3) let everyone know how crazy I am about all three bands. 4) give people some important public service announcements. 5) add more fanfic to this section so that everyone knows the Chili Peppers rock. 6) improve my writing. 7) bring about world peace. I have no connection with RHCP, MB20, or Creed. But, if you happen to be a member of the band and you are reading this, please email me. I will love you forever. Oh, I do already. Please email anyway.
> 
> As if that wasn’t enough...
> 
> My McDonald’s Disclaimer: Recently, I realised that the fast food chain, McDonald’s, appears in many of my stories. I do not own McDonald’s. I do not work for them. I do not know any current employees of the restaurant but know people who once held minimum wage jobs there. No defamation is intended to the McDonald’s corporation. Their service is usually fast and friendly, and they have yummy food. And they are not paying me to endorse their restaurant. Thus I conclude my McDonald’s Disclaimer.
> 
> My Waffle House Disclaimer: I have nothing against Waffle House. In fact, their hash browns are quite scrumptious. Again, not an employee, (and never was), and they’re not paying me to talk about them. If they were, they would have had me say something better.
> 
> FYI: In this story, two other bands besides RHCP make appearances - matchbox twenty and Creed. Just so you know, in case you don’t already, matchbox twenty is: Rob Thomas (vocals), Kyle Cook (lead guitar), Adam Gaynor (rhythm guitar), Brian "Pookie" Yale (bass), and Paul Doucette (drums). Creed is: Scott Stapp (vocals), Mark Tremonti (guitar), and Scott Phillips (drums). And, if you don’t know who the Chili Peppers are, I don’t know why you’re reading RHCP fanfic. Oh well. RHCP is: Anthony Kiedis (vocals), John Frusciante (guitar), Flea (bass), and Chad Smith (drums). There. Everybody happy?
> 
> Summary: People lie. The Chili Peppers learn this the hard way, and may not live to tell the tale.
> 
> Rating: PG-13
> 
> * Please e-mail with questions, comments, theories, complaints, or words of wisdom.
> 
> Peace, Love, and Chili Peppers!

3:52 AM, Thursday

Anthony turned from the tour bus window, brushing an errant strand of sunshine from his eyes. He glanced at the glowing green numbers that hovered at eye level in the gray expanse surrounding him. 4:00 AM.

Just below the digits, Flea yawned. He appeared almost feline, his nose scrunched up, his teeth bared. He settled back against the seat, folding his arms across his chest, and slipped back into slumber. The AC batted around the tight, golden ringlets that covered his head.

Anthony smiled at his sleeping friend, then gazed out the window again. His left arm was propped up on the seat, and the fingers of that hand drummed against the plastic. Sliding his right leg off his left, Anthony re-crossed his ankles. His legs were asleep. Numbness and tingling set into all his body, every joint and every muscle, but damned if he could sleep. He sighed, staring down at his feet. He loved the road, whether road trippin’ with his pals or touring with them, whether they were going bumping around town or to the most remote places in the world or to thriving metropoli. Anywhere! So long as he was moving, so long as he was free. So long as the wind whistled across his weathered face, through his ruffled hair. It was how he felt alive.

Sleep doesn’t come easily for adventurers though. So much excitement! How could he stand still for a moment when the world was happening before his eyes?

His fingertips struck the surface of the seat tops harder, and his palm slapped down. Anthony sprung to his feet.

"Mmm?" Flea lifted his head, his eyes still closed, his mind only slightly at the scene.

"It’s okay," Anthony raised his hands chest-level. "Sorry, buddy. Go back to sleep."

"Mmm." Flea leaned back, and the muscles in his face relaxed.

Anthony slinked past his friend, toward the back of the bus. Chad had left his laptop open, sitting on the small table where the Chili Peppers sometimes ate their meals on the road. Anthony slid into the bench in front of it. His face glowed bluish-green. Little trolls scurried across the computer screen, their hair wild and technicoloured. They kept bumping into one another and scampering off. Anthony chuckled to himself and tapped the mouse. The trolls disappeared.

Anthony opened the America Online program. If he couldn’t physically wander around, at least he could do so virtually.

The modem whistled and screeched. Anthony’s fingernails rapped across the mouse until the bus was silent.

"Welcome!" AOL’s electronic voice greeted him. "You’ve got mail!"

"No, I don’t," Anthony mumbled to himself. After all, it was Chad’s AOL account, not his.

Anthony couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on the Internet. He wasn’t afraid of new technology, like a lot of people he knew were. He just never really had time for it.

A box centred in the middle of the screen listed top news stories. Anthony wasn’t interested in any of them. Politics. All bureaucrats squabbling and eating up tax dollars. He X-ed out of the box and sighed. His dark eyes scanned the gray desktop as he sat back. What was he going to do online?

An icon along the top of the screen said "People". ‘People are good.’ He clicked on it, and a box appeared. All these options for chat rooms, and Anthony had no idea what he wanted to talk about. Shrugging, he clicked "Lobby", which took him to LOBBY54.

MERLYN8: I’m bored

"Great," Anthony rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes trained on the screen.

YANKEE040: A/S/L?  
LMONTGOM: 20/m/maryland  
FROOTY1: 14/f/Nashville

Text began scrolling too fast for Anthony to read. Didn’t seem like anything interesting was going on here anyway.

A box popped into existence on the left side of the screen, labeled "IM from BASKITKAYS".

BASKITKAYS: So you play drums? Me too!

‘Must have read Chad’s profile.’ Anthony never had. He typed his reply: "No, I’m on my friend’s account. Drums rock though."

He hit send. His message appeared beneath the first, beside the screen name CSMITH96.

BASKITKAYS: Hell yeah! A/S/L?

"38/m...," Anthony typed, then paused. Where was he anyway? Shrugging, he added, "I don’t know."

BASKITKAYS: 24/f/VA / What do you mean you don’t know?  
CSMITH96: I’m on the road. I think I’m near Virginia though, if not there.  
BASKITKAYS: Cool! So, where are you headed?  
CSMITH96: Marysville VA

‘Should I tell her why?’ Anthony shrugged. This was the Internet, after all. Not like it could hurt anything.

CSMITH96: My band’s got a gig there tomorrow night.  
BASKITKAYS: Cool! Hey, I live near Marysville! Maybe I can come see you play! Where are you playing?

Anthony smiled, amused that this girl wanted to see his band in concert and had no idea to whom she was talking.

CSMITH96: Okay! We’re playing at SAC Valley Amphitheater. What’s your name? I can have a ticket waiting for you at the door.

‘And a backstage pass.’

BASKITKAYS: Mariah Hodges

Anthony found a napkin and a pen on the table and wrote down the name.

CSMITH96: Okay I’ll make sure you get in

*****

About sixty miles away, thick, callused fingers typed a reply: "Thanks! Sorry, but I have to go now. My roommate has to use the computer."

CSMITH96: That’s okay! I’ll see you tomorrow night then. Show starts at 7:30, but get there early.  
BASKITKAYS: Great! Good night!  
CSMITH96: ‘Night, Mariah!

"Mariah" smiled, running a hand over his auburn beard. He turned to the lanky kid sitting beside him. "Josh! ‘d we get it?"

Josh’s pony-tailed mane flopped over his shoulder as he turned to "Mariah". He adjusted his wire frame glasses, a smile stretching the width of his jaw. "Sure did!"

"Good." He grabbed the worn leather jacket from the back of his chair. "Let’s get moving."


	2. Busted

6:34 AM, Thursday

Anthony’s glossy eyes widened. He swiped the back of his hand across each cheek, wiping away the tears streaming down his face. Light from the computer monitor illuminated his face but especially sparkled in his eyes. He sniffled.

"What’s wrong?"

Anthony gasped and jumped in his seat. He fell off the bench, tumbling to the floor by a pair of bare feet. He gazed up at their owner.

"Are you okay?" Chad furrowed his eyebrows. He extended a hand to Anthony.

"Chad!" he replied as his left hand slapped into Chad’s. "You’re my hero."

Chad raised an eyebrow. "Anthony," he said, "I thought you were off the drugs."

Sliding back onto the bench, Anthony pointed to the computer screen. "You risked your life to carry me through the desert! And now you’re dead!"

Chad shook his head. He leaned over Anthony and took hold of the mouse. "No, I’m revived in the epilogue."

CLICK!

A new page appeared.

Anthony sat back and sighed. "Thanks for ruining the story for me."

"My pleasure!" Chad stepped back. "So, how many have you read?"

"Just this one. I was looking at your other bookmarks first." Anthony perused the text on the screen. "They have pretty cool pen names," he added, chuckling to himself. "Like Fastfood Junkie wrote this one."

"Yeah," Chad smiled. "John’s favourite story was written by a girl named Chewable Morphine. It’s about us..."

SQUEEL!

Chad slammed into Anthony as the tour bus swerved to the right. The laptop clunked into the wall, and plates slid off the countertop, shattering on the walls. Chad threw his arms across the top of his head, and Anthony leaned over him as glass shards rained over them. The pieces clattered to the floor, as the bus ground to a halt.

Several seconds of silence slid by before Anthony raised his head. He rubbed the back of his throbbing neck and, when he lowered his arm, he found blood speckling his palm. He sighed.

Chad got to his knees, his eyes meeting with Anthony’s. "’The hell was that?"

Anthony blinked and shrugged. The two got to their feet and marched down the centre aisle, toward the front of the bus. A gangly shadow stood in the middle, a hand to his head. "Mike!" John called to the bus driver. "What happened?"

Mike murmured a reply, and Flea joined the three in the aisle. His eyes were puffy, and he squinted at Anthony. "What’s going on?" He rasped, rubbing his left eye.

"THIS IS THE POLICE!" a tinny voice rattled from outside the tour bus. The four stood wide-eyed, glancing at one another as the voice continued. "PLEASE STEP OUT OF THE VEHICLE AND PUT YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEADS!"

"’The hell did we do?" Chad furrowed his eyebrows.

"Sh**! This can’t be over speeding," Anthony stated, and John shrugged. The two raised their arms into the air and folded their hands against the base of their skulls. Chad and Flea followed suit, and paced toward the door of the bus.

John stepped out first. A policeman stood before him, a gawky young man who tapped his shoe against the gravel underfoot. The kid’s eyes darted about as he adjusted his dark police cap. His arms dangled at his sides, the fingers of his right hand playing against the gun on his utility belt. John gulped.

"Move it along!"

A burly hand shot out from John’s left. It latched onto his shoulder and shoved him. John stumbled forward a few steps, toward Mike, before regaining his balance. He turned toward the bus. A Crown Victoria sprawled across the road, in front of the path of the tour bus. The bus was mere inches from the side of the sedan, just inches from slamming into it.

John raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the door. Flea slid off the last step, and the husky cop pushed him toward Chad and Anthony, who stood beside John. The cop glared at the five, his eyes so dark and sinister that John stung from within. He looked away, instead glancing at his comrades.

Anthony stood directly beside him, fingers fidgeting behind his head. Anthony bit his lower lip. Wisps of bleached blond hair wiggled over his eyes, scrunching his nose as ends of these strands brushed across it. He trembled a bit, perhaps because of fear, perhaps because the morning air felt so dead.

John looked next to Chad. Muscles tensioned, stony eyes staring straight ahead, Chad could have been replaced with a life-size toy soldier and have not looked any differently. The digits interlocked behind his head whitened as they pressed against his short, wavy locks.

Just beyond Chad, Flea visibly shivered, his baby blues glazed, the mind behind them barely aware of its surroundings. Flea had only been asleep for a few hours, just long enough for his body to stop regulating internal temperature. Flea’s body was at its daily low point. His hands jittered, barely holding to his light curls. He stifled a yawn, swallowing it back inside himself.

The husky cop paced past Flea, past Chad, Past Anthony, John, and Mike. Then turned. And approached John, with that soul shattering glare. John lowered his head, and the officer spoke.

"You’re clean," the copper said, nodding toward Mike. "But the rest of you have been charged with being in possession of narcotics, if not trafficking as well..."

"’The hell!" Chad exclaimed, narrowing his eyes. "We’ve all been clean for..."

"You have the right to remain silent," the officer scowled at Chad. "Anything you say can..."

"I know my f***ing rights!" Chad retorted. "I’m just saying you’re wasting your time! You can search the bus; we’re clean."

The husky copper snorted. "We’ll see about that." Grabbing onto Mike’s shoulder, he ushered the bus driver back onto the bus.

John’s eyes focused on the officer’s shoes as he took to the steps. Once white Nikes, the copper’s sneakers were now caked with mud. John shook his head. "Um, excuse me, officer? Can we see your badge?"

Each of the other Chili Peppers shot John a confused glance while the cop dug his hands in his pockets. "Well, sure, boy!"

A sharp pain shot through John’s back. He gasped, starting to turn. A hand grasped his shoulder, and the throbbing along his spine doubled as something hard grinded into it.

"Whatever he shows you, accept," a weaselly voice whispered in John’s ear. "Don’t try to play the hero."

John froze, wide-eyed, staring at the hulking cop who drew a shiny badge from his pocket. He flashed it to each Chili Pepper. They all glanced nonchalantly at the embossed hunk of metal, all except for John. He gulped as the officer boarded the bus with Mike.

Taking in a deep breath, John closed his eyes. The stabbing in his back intensified, then waned as John’s mind retreated from his body, going inside, into a self-induced subconscious state. He needed to think. So much happening. So much around him. A brief step away from his body, away from immediate dangers, and he knew what to do.

His eyelids flew open.

"They’re not real cops!"

A shove from behind, and John fell to his knees. He coughed. His hands slid into mud, his knees beneath him feeling damp. Something dug into the back of his skull. John trembled, and lowered his head into the ground. Mud sloshed over his hands as he slid them further into the muck.

"What the f*** is your problem?" the impish voice overhead shouted, sending a shiver down John’s spine. "Do you WANT to die?"

A foot drove into John’s back. Crying out, he slammed into the mud. His face sunk into it. He jerked his head upward but met a force at the base of his skull. He coughed. And coughed. And coughed. Each time he did, inhaling mud into his airways. Still, he coughed, though he fought his body’s inclination to do so.

CLICK!

"Please let him up," John heard Anthony’s voice waver. "Just... just tell us what you want."

John’s coughing weakened as he began feeling lightheaded. His arms hadn’t the strength to move. He was having a hard time stringing concepts with thoughts, images with meaning. Colours swirled across his vision, his body limp.

"Josh! You’re gonna kill him, you moron!" a deep, raspy voice exclaimed. The pressure on John’s back and head let up, but he lay there. A pair of hands grabbed his shoulders, flipping him onto his back. John’s eyes fluttered closed.

Something pounded into his flanneled chest. And again. John coughed, mud spewing forth from his lips. He lay there, coughing and gasping for air, his breathing ragged and raw. His eyes were open but only the whites showed. John’s eyes focused on Anthony, shivering and pale, just ten feet away. His black T-shirt flapped in the breeze, strands of his hair across the top half of his face.

To the left, a gun was still trained at John’s forehead.

"What... what do you want?" John gasped, then hacked up another clump of mud.

"Just get in the car!" the heavyset man grabbed Flea’s T-shirt collar and led him to the passenger’s side of the car. Eyebrows furrowed, Flea glanced about, his blue eyes stormy with confusion. The man opened the back door and shoved Flea into the car. Latching onto Chad’s shoulder, he pushed the drummer into the car next. Chad collided with Flea; the two huddled together, away from the open door and their captor.

The heavyset man turned to Josh. "’ight! Put the kid in the trunk!" He gestured toward John. The Chili Pepper was lying on his back, eyes closed, head tilted back, eyes closed, heaving and wheezing.

"Please don’t make him ride in the trunk!" Anthony protested.

"Are you telling me what to do, runt?" the man snarled, grabbing hold of Anthony’s arm, shoving him against the car. The frigid metal sent a chill through Anthony’s spine. "You think ‘cause you’re famous that you’re better than me, a hard working member of the labouring class?" The man’s eyes bulged, glaring at the singer. His grip tightened, his fingernails digging into flesh.

"N...no, sir," Anthony stuttered. His eyes wandered to John, who now lay on his side, staring back at his friend. Anthony’s sights returned to the man. "I, I’m asking you. You can put me in the trunk instead."

The man backed away from Anthony, who sighed. With a huff, he turned to John. "Get your sorry ass off the ground!"

John got to his feet, as the husky man fumbled with his keys. He unlocked the trunk, which popped open. John and Anthony exchanged glances as they were led past one another, into their respective prisons. Anthony climbed into the trunk of the sedan. He held his legs to his chest, curling himself into a ball. The trunk closed over him, leaving him in complete darkness. He heard feet falling heavy, doors slam, the car’s engine rumble to life.

The car sped away, into the early morning light.


	3. Drive-Thru

8:15 AM, Thursday

John leaned against Chad. Gazing up at his friend, John met with caring eyes.

"You all right?" Chad murmured.

Mud caked the navy cushions surrounding and beneath John.

"Yeah." John gave Chad a crooked smile. "More appreciative of breath now."

Chad grinned. He slipped an arm over his friend’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze.

Hazy rays played across the faces of the three in the back seat of the car. Flea stared out the window, watching as the sun ascended into the sky. Guard rails and the occasional car raced across his field of vision. He turned to the others. "Maybe," he whispered to Chad, "we could make a sign. Put it in the window. To say we need help."

Leaning toward the bass player, Chad breathed, "We don’t have anything to write with."

"I’ll write in blood."

"On what though?"

Flea sighed and returned to monitoring outside activity.

"Do you think Anthony’s okay back there?" John hissed.

"I don’t like all that whispering back there!" their bulky kidnapper announced from the driver’s seat. "Now dry up!"

"Just wondering if Anthony’s okay in the trunk," John replied evenly, wiping dried clay from his fuzzy chin. "Like is there enough air? And what about carbon monoxide poisoning? I read that..."

"I don’t give a sh** what you’ve read!" the driver snapped. John shuddered.

"Um... he, he might have a point there, Lloyd," Josh stammered from in front of John. He leaned forward and adjusted his glasses. "Should we take any chances?"

"He’s not going to die!"

Lloyd’s flabby arm lay across the side of the door, auburn hairs across it dancing in the breeze. He leaned over it and spat out the window. "D’we have any coffee left? I’ve got this sh*tty taste in my mouth."

A dark green thermos glinted in the newly risen sun as Josh held it in the air. "No, you drank the last of it about an hour ago."

Lloyd smacked the thermos out of Josh’s hand. It flew into the back seat and landed at Chad’s feet. The three Chili Peppers looked down at it before returning their attention to Lloyd’s foul expression.

"We could stop at a Waffle House!" Josh’s arm extended out the window, pointing to a blue highway sign. "There’s one at the next exit."

Rubbing the sweat off his upper lip, Lloyd shook his head. "Drive-thru is better. Takes too long at Waffle House. Besides," he thrust a thumb into the back seat, "I’m not sure you can handle these guys on your own."

"They’re locked in!"

"If it were just you," Lloyd sighed, reaching for the glove compartment, "they could overpower you, with or without a gun."

Josh glanced into the back seat and shrugged. Turning back to Lloyd, he said, "I could get the food then."

"Probably screw up the order."

Flea leaned toward Chad. "Got anything sharp?" he breathed.

The sedan glided down the exit ramp, and Chad turned to Flea.

"What the hell are you planning?"

"If we do drive-thru," Flea whispered, raising his eyebrows, "the cashier girl’ll see us." He stared at Chad, who shook his head. "Ask John if he does."

"Flea," Chad hissed, then closed his eyes. "You’re not writing in blood. There has to be another way."

Chad scanned his surroundings. The floor of the sedan was amazingly clean, no lint even. His eyes traveled across it to a mud patch, in which John’s sneaker-clad feet rested. All over John’s side of the car, mud painted everything. John sat amidst it, his head propped on his hand as he gazed out the window. His eyelids drooping, his head sagging. Mud all over his face...

Mud...

Chad’s sights whirled to Flea, who was gnawing on a cut near his thumbnail. "Write in mud!" he breathed. Flea looked up and was greeted with a huge smile.

"Mud?"

Chad turned to John. He elbowed his friend in the ribs. John jumped in his seat and glared at Chad. "What?"

"Take off your flannel."

John raised an eyebrow. Shrugging, he undid the buttons of his shirt. He slid it off his torso, revealing a T-shirt beneath. The T-shirt, once completely white, now sported a dark brown ring around the collar.

As John handed the muddied flannel shirt to Chad, the sedan pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s. A six foot statue of Ronald McDonald beamed at them by the side of the building, standing in a permanent wave. Besides Ronald, the parking lot was deserted.

The sedan pulled up to the ordering booth.

"Welcome to McDonald’s!" a tinny female voice crackled through the speaker. "May I take your order?"

"Just a minute!" Lloyd hollered. He turned to Josh and murmured, "I’m getting them all hash browns and water. What do you want?"

"Coffee and an egg mc’muffin."

"Okay," Lloyd turned back to the speaker. "I’d like..."

As Lloyd ordered, Flea spat. A trail of saliva dropped from his lips and sunk into the sleeve of John’s flannel. He rubbed it with the shirt tail and held the sleeve to the window.

"Would you like an apple pie with that?" the crinkly voice asked.

Lloyd leaned out the window. "Does apple pie really go with breakfast, darling?"

"Um, well...," the voice replied. "Um, no, sir."

Flea pressed the sleeve to the left side of his window.

"Don’t forget to write mirror image," Chad hissed.

Shifting the sleeve to the right, Flea wrote his message backwards:

KIDNAPPED  
CALL 911

The sedan drove around the corner of the building, to the drive-thru window. Flea lowered the flannel and handed it back to John. He gazed upon the face of the cashier. Her red McDonald’s cap was tilted to the left. Blond wisps of hair hung over her face, the rest pulled back in a long ponytail. Her stormy eyes darted about, glancing from the bags of food, to the cash Lloyd held out the window, to the drink dispenser beside her, to her cash register. Without looking, she accepted the money from Lloyd. Coins slipped from her fingers, clinking to the pavement. Lloyd swore and unlocked his door. He bent over to retrieve the change. The girl leaned out the window, holding out her palm. She caught sight of the mud message, at the desperate eyes watching her, wide and scared, and she accepted the change from Lloyd. Furrowing her eyebrows, she threw the change into the cash drawer. She scratched her head as she grabbed the bags. She handed them to Lloyd. As she grabbed the drinks, she looked into the back seat. She smiled when she saw John.

"Have a nice day!" she handed the drinks to Lloyd, then waved to the three staring at her from the back seat.

Flea sighed.

Lloyd pulled into a parking space. He dug in the bag, his eyes watching Josh. "Go throw this in the trunk, will ya?" He tossed the hash brown to his partner. Handing over a water, he added, "And let him have a few sips of this before we get going again."

Josh hopped out of the car. His door swung shut behind him.

A bag flew into the back seat, plopping into Chad’s lap. "Eat up!" Lloyd thrust three McDonald’s cups at them, and they each accepted one.

Flea was gulping down his water when Chad elbowed him. Lowering the cup, he asked, "What?"

"Wash the mud off your window!" Chad hissed. His hand was in the McDonald’s bag. Flea dumped water into his hand and rubbed fiercely at the window. The mud spread further, covering the entire surface.

The front passenger’s door opened, and Josh sunk into his seat. The sedan backed out of its parking spot and slid onto the road.

Chad took John’s flannel and exchanged it for a hash brown. John squeezed his breakfast, watching oil bubble out of the rough potato exteriour and drip down his fingers. He scrunched up his nose and tore off a dime-sized piece.

The sedan got back onto the highway.

John gulped down his first piece of hash brown and immediately went for his water. He glanced at Flea, vigorously working at wiping away the mud, then at the seat in front of him.

"Is he all right back there?" John called to the front seat. "Is he okay in the trunk?"

"He’s fine," Josh replied, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

"Did you ask him?"

Swiveling in his seat, Josh glared at John through thick lenses. "What, did you expect me to ask?" Out of the corner of his eye, Josh caught movement. He turned toward it. "’The hell are you doing? Why’s there mud on your window?"

Flea froze, holding his breath.

"What’s going on back there?" Lloyd exclaimed, glancing over his left shoulder, glaring at Flea. "’The hell... what are you doing?"

Flea stared back.

"Damn you! Were you ..."

"Lloyd! Watch out!" Josh exclaimed. Whirling around, Lloyd saw the bumper of the Jeep coming up fast. He slammed on the brakes. The sedan squealed to a halt in the middle of the highway, hurling its occupants forward. The sedan grinded to a halt mere inches from the Jeep. They barely had time to sigh when an SUV rammed into them from behind.

"F***!" Lloyd cursed. Yanking the steering wheel, he flew into and soared down the brake-down lane.

Josh held his hands to his temples and shook his head. He readjusted his glasses. Then glanced to the rear of the car. "Oh sh**! Pull over!"

"Can’t yet!"

Flea swiveled in his seat. His stomach dropped. Jagged-edged blue metal, crumpled like discarded paper, stuck out by the rear window. "Anthony."


	4. Rumours

8:14 PM, Thursday

Instruments and cheers resonated through SAC Valley Amphitheatre, the auditorium vibrating with energy. In waves, people danced and hooted as a guitar riff captured them, tantalising and fresh.

Backstage, a young man sat on an amplifier. His mind was miles away from the concert. His brilliant dark eyes, shimmering from the stage lighting, gazed into space. He tucked chocolate toned hair behind his right ear and sighed. Scratching at his bulging biceps, he glanced at a clock on the wall.

"Yeah, it's late."

His eyes traveled to the speaker's narrowed blue eyes. The newcomer held his hands behind his back and continued. "Stapp, what are we still doing here?"

Scott Stapp shrugged, and rested his head on the heel of his hand. "We can't just leave. I know it's not our problem, that the Chili Peppers aren't here, but..."

"You feel it is," the other finished with a sigh. Running a hand through his spiky blond hair, he muttered, "Damn your conscience! You know we're going to be dead on our feet tomorrow night."

Scott turned to him, eyes deepening and cutting into his bandmate's. "If they're not here tonight, who's to say they'll show up tomorrow? Come on, Phillips! Do you really think they'd just blow off a show like that?"

"I don't know," Scott Phillips huffed, shuffling his feet. "I tried to see them back a few years ago and they canceled."

Closing his eyes, Stapp rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, right after Anthony's motorcycle accident." He shook his head. Raising his head, he looked at the man approaching them, a tall, baseball-capped individual. Planting a hand on each knee, the newcomer leaned over his legs.

"No...," he panted, "No sign of them. An, Anthony's girlfriend doesn't, doesn't even know where they, where they are."

Stapp grimaced. "Thanks, Mark." Closing his eyes, Mark Tremonti nodded. He rolled up the sleeves of his black jersey and sat down beside Stapp.

Phillips crossed his arms and stood before the two, legs splayed stance. "So what do we do now? Just hang around? How's it going to help, us just being here?"

Mark shrugged and leaned back. The cheering in the auditorium grew louder, and from onstage, a voice drawled, "Thank you, Virginia! Enjoy the rest of the show, with the Red Hot Chili Peppers!"

Whistles and shouts.

"Take it easy!"

The end of the curtain closest to Mark and the two Scotts parted. A tall, gangly blond stepped offstage, swinging a guitar and puffing away at a cigarette. Through red tinted shades, he glanced at the three before him. "Hey," he set down his guitar by an amp and cracked a smile. I figured y'all would have left by now."

Stapp and Mark exchanged glances before Stapp made eye contact with the guitarist. "Kyle," he raised his eyebrows, "the Chili Peppers aren't here."

Pause.

"Sh**!" Kyle Cook exclaimed, his cigarette still dangling out of his mouth. "What, like, they never showed up?"

Stapp nodded.

"Sh**!" Kyle lowered his smoke from his lips and paced away from the three. Turning back to them, he held a hand to the small of his back. "So, so what should we do?"

Silence.

Kyle ran a hand over his fuzzy chin and seated himself on the amp against which his guitar rested. Stage hands rushed past the group, carrying boxes labeled "MB20" from the stage. Along with them sauntered a dark haired individual in a long sleeved, black fitted shirt. A smile spread across his curvy lips, and he laid a hand on Kyle's shoulder. "Hey, baby!" his blue eyes beamed. "Great show tonight!"

"Thanks, Rob." Only the left side of Kyle's lips managed to twist into a smile. Rob Thomas stepped away. He fiddled with his wedding ring as he asked, "What's wrong?" His eyebrows furrowed, his full lower lip drooped from the upper.

"Um..."

Rob looked from Kyle to Stapp, who continued.

"The Chili Peppers never showed up."

Rob glanced about frantically, and Kyle handing him a box of cigarettes. Rob pulled one out and lit it. His sights bore into a back wall as he inhaled on the cigarette. He looked back at Stapp. "What happened to them? You know?" He exhaled the words with smoke.

Stapp shook his head. "Nobody knows," he replied, fingering the metal choker around his neck. "Not their road manager, not their girlfriends..."

"Damn." Rob scratched his jaw and took another puff on his cigarette. "You're not thinking something happened to them..."

"I don't know," Stapp shrugged, gazing at Rob. "I don't know what to think."

"Hey!" an individual strode toward them, shocks of dyed blond hair dripping over his eyes. He glanced up at Rob. "Somebody just told me I'm taking over for Flea tonight. What the hell is going on?"

Rob shook his head. Putting his hands on the newcomer's shoulders, he said, "Nobody's taking over for anyone tonight, Pookie. None of the Chili Peppers are here."

"Somebody's going to have to tell the audience that," Kyle murmured, folding his legs to his chest and taking another drag on his cigarette.

Silence. The six men all stared at each other until Mark got to his feet. He shuffled away from the others. They watched him as he stepped behind the curtain, onto the stage. They noticed a dark haired figure across the way, carefully gathering baby doll heads from a set of amps. The individual kissed each one before wrapping them in powder blue cloth and packing them in a black box labeled "MB20" with white letters.

"Where's Paul?" Rob asked, still watching his bandmate across the stage.

"Prob'bly walking Sophie," Kyle replied, catching Phillips raise an eyebrow. "His dog," Kyle added, inhaling on his smoke.

The curtains parted. A drenched individual stepped backstage, one stenching of alcohol. Everyone stared at him, some mouths dropping open. Stapp leaned toward the newcomer.

"Mark, man, what happened?" he asked.

Holding out his arms, Mark raised his eyebrows. "I was the bearer of bad news. What did you expect?"

"Man, sit down," Stapp slid off the amp and gestured, open palmed, to his seat. Mark dropped onto it with a sigh.

"'The hell's the matter with people?" he huffed. He removed his cap and ran a hand through his hair. Returning the cap to his head, he sighed again.

"Sorry, man," Rob rubbed his chin. "You know, we shouldn't have let you go out there. One of us," he nodded toward his bandmates, "or one of the roadies..."

Mark held up a hand. "No, forget it." He glanced at Kyle, who didn't seem totally there. matchbox twenty's lead guitarist was staring into space, his elbows propped on his knees, a cigarette dangling between them.

Brian Yale, or "Pookie", shifted his weight from his left to right foot, his head lowered, his eyes locked on the wooden stage floor.

Phillips cleared his throat, gaining everyone's attention. "Mark, go get cleaned up. You're dripping on that amp, and it's not even ours."

Mark leapt off the amplifier. Glancing behind him, he saw the slight puddle he'd left behind.

"Damn, I'm sorry! Whose is this?"

"Kyle's," Rob replied with a grimace. "Don't worry. Just a little water on the top." He used his sleeve to wipe it away.

"It's all right," Kyle mumbled.

Mark wandered away from the group.

"Hey, listen," Rob called to him, and he turned. "When you're ready, just wander over to our meet and greet." Rob glanced at each Scott, then back at Mark. "You're all invited to hang out with us, if you want."

Phillips cracked a smile. "Thanks! But we shouldn't stay long."

Voices from matchbox twenty's meet and greet room traveled out of the open door, and the approaching musicians heard the buzzing a few hundred feet away. A pair of dark eyes and a goofy smile peeked out the doorway.

"Hey!" the individual exclaimed. He swung on the door, brown curls bouncing along with him. Turning away from the approaching group, he yelled into the room, "Hey, everyone! Here they come!"

Cheers erupted from the room, and Rob was first to glide inside.

"Hey, baby," Rob patted his herald's shoulder. "Paul here?"

"Nah."

"Hey!" Rob called into the room. "Everyone thank Adam for being such a good host!"

A few whistles resounded. Adam Gaynor turned to his bandmate, a smile spanning his face.

"Thanks! I'm not Martha Stewart, but I try."

"Oh, we brought friends!" Rob gestured to the two Scotts as they entered the room behind Brian and Kyle.

With a bow, Adam said, "Welcome, friends!"

"Hey, man!" Phillips replied, and Stapp grinned.

Clusters of people patched across the room. Several of which stood staring before them, clutching miscellaneous items. Rob smiled at them, striking up a conversation as he and his present bandmates got to work autographing.

Phillips and Stapp stepped away from the crowds, toward a table where rows of beers awaited them. A pony-tailed blond stepped before them, gazing up at Stapp shoulder-lovel.

"Is it true the Chili Peppers broke up?" she asked, baby blues welling up, an RHCP Californication CD clenched between both hands. "'Cause that's what I just heard, that's the reason why they're not here."

"Um...," Stapp stammered, glancing at Phillips. "No, not as far as I've heard. We just don't know where they are."

"Oh." The girl stared blankly at Stapp before scurrying away.

Stapp and Phillips each snatched up a can of beer. Phillips threw back his first gulp and smiled. Stapp leaned his head back and chugged.

"I can't believe Anthony's really dead!"

Beer down the wrong pipe. Stapp gagged. Hacking, he turned toward the guy who had spoken. The exclaimer held a beer of his own. He was leaning against a wall and facing a taller, skinnier kid. The slender fellow shook his head.

"No, I heard it was John who ODed!"

"That's bull!" a third guy replied. "John just quit the band!"

Stapp grimaced. He sighed and took another swig of his beer. Glancing toward the door, he caught sight of a short guy with a stocking cap and glasses. The fellow stood wide-eyed, frantically scanning the room. Recognition flashed across his eyes, and the guy waded toward Rob.

"What is it, Paul?" Stapp heard Rob ask the guy, just as a pale Mark confronted Stapp and Phillips.

"You're not going to believe this," Mark voiced, barely audible over the boisterous matchbox twenty fans.

"Not another rumour," Phillips huffed, and knocked back more beer.

Eyes steady and staring into space, Mark shook his head from one side to the other. "matchbox twenty's drummer, Paul, just ran into the Chili Peppers' bus driver in the parking lot. He says the band was kidnapped."


	5. Locked Up

9:42 AM, Thursday

Shoved from behind, John fell and skidded across the floor on his stomach. He slid into Chad's feet and came to a halt. Heavy feet fell upon steps, and a metal door slammed shut, leaving the three within the ten by ten foot chamber in pitch blackness.

CLICK!

Chad's hand still grasped the chain attached to the glowing light bulb above them. It slipped through his fingers as he lowered his arm.

Flea sat against the wall farthest from the door, where he had landed. Holding his knees, and gazing up at his companions, he swallowed hard. "Do you... do you guys think Anthony is all right?"

Silence. Chad stared at his feet. John arched over his legs and buried his head in his hands. Sighing, Flea shook his head and dug in the dirt beside him. He used his thumbnail to dislodge a small rock from the soot, and promptly flung the pebble across their little chamber. It thumped against the wall by the door, then fell back to the dust.

Chad lapped his palate and gulped. "It might not be that bad." His voice cracked, his eyes trained on his feet. "Might just be bad enough to jam the lock on the trunk." His back slid down the dirt wall beside Flea, and he sat by his friend. "If they can get a decent enough locksmith..."

Flea shook his head. "It's not going to be that easy." An eerie shadow fell across the left side of Flea's face as he looked Chad in the eye. "I saw what the trunk looked like, at least from the back seat." He turned away from the light, his face now completely overtaken by the shadows. "It's going to take more than picking a lock."

John rocked slowly and evenly where he sat, his fingers pressing into his forehead, his thumbs into his temples. At a glance, he seemed to blend into his surroundings.

Flea sighed. He uprooted another pebble and threw it across the chamber. Chad stared after the tiny stone, his eyelids drooping. He immediately widened his eyes. But the lids drew heavy again, his eyes desiring its shades, his mind requiring respite. His thoughts clouded, and consciousness drifted. Images of the morning haunted his brain, scenes in almost photo form flashing across his mind's eye. Falling into Anthony on the bus as it swerved. John suffocating in the mud. Guns pointing at them. Their burly captor hollering in the car. Being hit from behind.

"F***!"

"Oh sh**! Pull over! Pull over!"

"I can't!"

Chad blinked his eyes. He was back in the sedan, and it was swerving across three lanes of traffic, horns blaring. It shot down an exit ramp and raced through a country road, into woods. Then grinded to a halt.

Lloyd threw all his weight into the driver's side door and stepped out of the car, slamming the door behind him. His feet pounded against the ground, fainter as they thumped off behind the three in the back seat.

"Oh, sh**!" Lloyd's exclamation shook the car, and John shuddered. "Josh, get your ass out here!"

Chad watched as Josh slipped out of the car and heard him plodding to his partner.

"What the hell are we supposed to do?" came Josh's reply.

"I don't know," Lloyd hissed. "I don't know I don't know I don't..."

The car was speeding down the road again. Chad glanced at Flea to his left, who was pressed against his side of the sedan. His eyes glossy and seemingly staring out the window, his shoulders hunched, his arms wrapped about his midsection.

John, sitting in filth, rubbed the back of his neck.

"This friend of yours had BETTER be able to get that trunk open!" Lloyd sneered, clutching the steering wheel.

"Not like we have a lotta options, Lloyd," came Josh's retort, earning a growl from his partner.

The sedan shot down the highway. Soaring, soaring, soaring, and squealing down an exit ramp. Past gas stations. Past fast food restaurants. Past grass and wheat fields. And into the woods. Stopping in front of a rickety farm house.

"There's nobody here!" Lloyd yelled, ramming his palms into the steering wheel.

"Uh, um...," Josh stammered. "He might be at market today, but he should be back soon."

Lloyd sighed. "He'd better be," he muttered. "He have a place to hold the other three?"

"Yeah, a storm cellar."

Lloyd threw open the car door by Flea, who had been leaning against it. Chad grabbed his arm before he fell out. "Come on out!"

Chad paced behind Flea, Lloyd trudging beside him, guiding them to the back of the house. They were nearing the side of the house when John let out a blood-curdling scream. Chad started to turn around, but Lloyd grabbed his collar.

"You never mind him! Just keep moving!"

John cried out again. This time, Chad managed to steal a peek over his shoulder. Gun in hand, Josh shoved John, who was staring at the accordion-folded trunk...

At the blood seeping down the rear bumper and into rust toned puddles in the dust.

A sickening sensation swept over Chad. He watched his friend lunge at the trunk. John gouged his fingers into the upfolds of metal, working to pry open the compartment. As he slashed the raw edges, his fingers bled.

"Anthony!" John cried out, still clawing at the trunk. "Anthony!"

"You'd better shut up, kid!" Chad heard his burly captor reply, as the scrawny one grabbed at John's arms. Josh looked to Lloyd, who nodded.

"Just waste him," the heavyset gunholder scowled with a shrug.

Josh raised his gun.

CLICK! CREEK!

WHOOSH!

"Chad!"

Flea's hissed whisper cut through the scene. Chad opened his eyes and found the bass player's shadow looming over him. A second silhouette joined the first, one holding a tray, slender, feminine.

Chad bolted upright. "What's going on?" he demanded.

The petite figure lowered herself to her knees before him. The tray between them carried apples, sandwiches, bottled water, and pickles. The bearer of the food smiled at him between two of the waters. Her chocolate toned skin seemed to shimmer in the bulblight, her deep mahogany eyes twinkling. Her ebony hair snaked in a braided rope down the length of her spine.

She set down the tray at his feet, revealing the forest green T-shirt and blue jeans behind it.

"Is everyone in here okay?" she asked, her voice strong yet angelic.

Chad glanced about the cellar. Across the way sat John, huddling his knees to his solid clay chest. He was still rocking back and forth, and holding his head in his hands. Chad noticed that the girl was also watching John.

"I think he's in shock," Flea's blue eyes widened.

"Why's he covered in mud?"

"He got pushed into it this morning," Flea replied, and the girl furrowed her thick eyebrows. She grabbed a water bottle off the tray and handed it to Flea.

"Here," she said. "Give him this."

Flea accepted the bottle. He knelt by John's side and held out the bottle to his friend. "John!" he called softly to him. "John!"

Back and forth. Back and forth. No other movement. Flea took hold of John's wrists and pulled them down. Soiled fingers slowly slipped down John's tarnished features, streaked with shining tears. Eyes shut. Body still rocking. Flea steadied his friend, unscrewed the cap, and held the bottle to John's lips. He tilted it back, gently, and John drank. His adam's apple bobbed a few times, then rested. Flea withdrew the water. John's head fell back into his hands. And the rocking resumed.

Flea stared at John for a full minute before setting the water bottle at his bandmate's feet. Then Flea stood and wandered back to Chad. The drummer cleared his throat, causing the drummer to look down.

"I think he saw the trunk. Up close." Chad watched his feet as he spoke. Then, gazing up at Flea, he added, "I think that's why he screamed."

"Your friend," the girl voiced, "he's still alive." She looked deep into Chad's eyes, and blinked a couple of times before adding, "They can hear him talking but can't tell what he's saying."

"Anthony's still in the trunk?"

The girl turned to Flea and nodded. "Yes. But my father is here now, and he should be able to cut open the trunk."

"Cut it...," Flea's mouth dropped. "Cut it open?"

"My father will work slowly and carefully."

Flea nodded. Crossing his arms, he turned away from her. Chad swallowed hard and leaned his head against the wall.

"I didn't see the trunk," Chad told the girl. "Is it, is it bad?"

She gazed at him, glanced quickly at her feet, then back at him. "I'm afraid it is. But it sounds like he's okay. There might be enough space still left in there that he might not have been hurt."

CLICK! CREEK!

"Myra, hurry up!" Josh's voice hissed through the cellar. "Lloyd's gonna skin us both!"

"I have to go," Myra glanced at each of the three Chili Peppers before returning her sights to Chad. "But your friend should be down soon."

"Myra!"

Myra shuffled up the steps and slipped out the door. It whooshed shut behind her. The three Chili Peppers were again alone in their shadowy, underground cell.


	6. Losing Mind And Breath

10:20 PM, Thursday

Heavy nasal breaths whistled through a ten by ten foot chamber underground. Flea smacked his lips together twice, rolled over, and sighed through his nose. His eyelids fluttered then rested shut. An arm flopped across his torso, the other stretched before him. Hands squeezed into fists. Fingers sporadically pulsing. The muscles in his face tensioned.

"No," he whispered through clenched teeth. Flea rolled onto his back. Eyebrows furrowed. He winced. Pressure swept across his chest, and he gasped. Air caught in his throat. Difficult to draw it into his lungs, each breath more shallow than the last. He coughed himself awake.

Panting, Flea sat up and glanced around the cellar. Chad sat with his back and tilted head against the wall, his mouth open. His arms hung at his sides, knuckles resting on the ground.

Flea turned to John. Still holding his head in his hands. John's hypnotic rocking lulled Flea back to sleep. He gasped for every breath. His mouth fell open, sucking air into his lungs, but never enough.

A scream ripped through the chamber. And, as Flea and Chad jolted awake, it continued to tear through John's throat. It raked across his vocal chords, scraping its depths.

"John!" Flea exclaimed. He and Chad clamoured to their screaming friend. Flea draped an arm across John's back. Wrapping his fingers over his bandmate's shoulder, Flea drew in strained breath. "John!" he managed to cough out the name.

Chad latched onto both of John's shoulders and shook them. "John!" he hollered at him, causing Flea to shudder. "John! Snap out of it!" He jerked his friend violently. John's head snapped back and thrust into his chest with every shake. Still screaming.

Chad drew back a hand, his face stoic. He swung at John, slapping him across the face. John's head fell back into his hands. Silence. Then rocking.

Sighing, Chad shook his head. He stared down at his hand, red and pulsing. He folded his fingers across his palm, and the splotch disappeared. Heartache remained.

From the corner of his eye, Chad caught Flea staggering backward. The bass player flopped to a sitting position on the ground, gasping for air.

"You okay?" Chad furrowed his eyebrows. He stepped toward his friend, who raised a hand.

"I'm," he panted, "I'm fine."

"Then why..."

CLICK! WHOOSH!

Chad and Flea turned to the door as Myra plodded down the stairs.

"What's going on?" she asked, squinting at Chad. Her eyes were puffy, straggly strands of her braid loose and shooting out in every direction.

"I don't know," Chad replied, pointing to John. "He just started screaming..."

Myra glided to John's side and touched one of the hands across his face. "He's so cold! And his skin is clammy!" Her eyes gazed into Chad's. "I have to get y'all out of here!" She spoke in a low, even tone. "As soon as they get your friend out of the trunk, I'm going to sneak down here and let y'all free."

"Is he okay?" Chad pressed his lips together before asking, "Is he going to be out soon?"

"They're having dinner right now, but they said they think they're close now..." Myra's voice faded, and she bit her lower lip. "But your friend hasn't said anything for a while now."

Chad sighed and rubbed his forehead. He glanced at Flea and found him clutching his chest, mouth wide and gasping.

"Flea!"

"I ca... I ca...," Flea swallowed. "Can't breath." Chad and Myra dropped to his side.

Several hundred feet away from that ten by ten foot storm cellar lay a man crammed in the back of a crushed trunk. Within his confines, he felt no pain. At least he hadn't for several minutes now. His body numb, his mind racing, as his struggle for air intensified with every breath. The back of his neck tingled, his thoughts and vision fuzzy. He closed his eyes and yielded up consciousness.


	7. Restlessness

11:57 PM, Thursday

Scott Stapp awoke from a fitful sleep. Lying alone in a hotel bed, he stared at the ceiling, at the shadowy bumps that speckled across it. He sighed. He turned onto his left side; glowing red digits greeted him. 11:58. Last time he had looked, it read 11:52. And, before that, 11:46. He rolled out of bed.

Raking his fingers through his dark, shoulder-length hair, he glanced at the bed beside his. Mark Tremonti lay cuddling his blanket, a soft smile sweeping the width of his chin. He looked ten years old in slumber, and Scot had to smile. He yawned and plodded toward the door.

The second floor hallway was vacant, Scott discovered, as he stepped out of his and Mark’s room. He sauntered down the hallway, toward the crimson glare of a Coke machine. He pulled a few quarters out of the pocket of his jeans and dropped them into the machine. He hit the top button. Silence. Then the machine rumbled. A soda can clattered inside, and the machine spat it out. Leaning forward, Scott retrieved it.

As he straightened himself, he glanced to his left, into the second floor lobby. Against the far window stood the silhouette of a man, ringlets of smoke floating over his head. Scott approached the figure. As he drew closer, he noticed the individual’s dark T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. Recognition flashed in Scott’s eyes.

"Can’t sleep either?" he asked, and the figure jumped. He crossed his arms and propped himself against the window with his elbows.

The individual smiled at Scott and adjusted his glasses. "You know how it is on the road," he replied, taking in a puff of his half-spent cigarette.

"It’s not a sleeping night." Scott opened his soda can and took a sip. "Hey, um, Paul? Are you, are you awake for the same reason I am?"

Paul lowered his cigarette from his lips. "If you mean because of the kidnapping, yes," he spoke through a cloud of smoke. He shook his head. "I don’t know, man. It’s freaking me out. I mean, this is f***ing nuts."

"I know." Scott pursed his lips.

The two gazed out the window. Their eyes rested upon an illuminated tour bus and stared after the shadow pacing around inside.

Paul inhaled on his cigarette and shook his head. "Poor guy. He’s been in that bus for at least an hour."

"Who is that?" Scott set down his soda on a side table.

Gesturing toward the window with his cigarette, Paul replied, "That’s the Chili Peppers’ bus driver."

Scott turned toward Paul. He uncrossed his arms and let them dangle at his sides. "Didn’t you talk to him earlier?"

Paul nodded.

"What did he tell you?" Scott’s eyes met with Paul’s momentarily, before the latter lowered his gaze to the floor.

"They got pulled over by the cops," Paul voiced. "They got busted for possession of drugs, except they didn’t have any..."

Scott furrowed his eyebrows. "They got busted on a highway for drugs?"

Paul cracked a smile. "Apparently. I know it doesn’t make any sense. But they wanted to search the bus anyway. The driver says," Paul waved his cigarette around as he spoke, "that he could have sworn the cop hit him over the head."

"The cop?"

"No sh**." Paul took a drag on his smoke. "He woke up he doesn’t know how many hours later. And the cops were gone." He breathed a ring of smoke. "And so was the band."

"Damn," Scott’s eyes widened. "So did he call the cops?"

Paul nodded. He wandered to a nearby side table and flicked ash into an ashtray there. Tiny embers glistened within it. "He came here first, hoping the Chili Peppers’d already be there. When he ran up to me, he had this insane look in his eyes. He asked me if I knew if the Chili Peppers were there. I thought he was a fan until he told me what happened." He drew the cigarette to his lips. After sucking the remainder of life from it, he discarded the cigarette butt in the ash tray.

"Hey, what’s going on?"

Paul and Scott turned to the doorway, where a man clad only in boxer shorts stood. His dark, tousled hair stood on end. He crossed his toned arms over his chest and squinted at the two with swollen, sleepy eyes.

Paul smiled and shook his head. "It’s nothing, Ad. We just can’t sleep."

Plopping himself into an arm chair, Adam replied, "I can’t either."

"But weren’t you just sleeping?"

"Yeah!" Adam retorted, scratching his head. "But I can’t now, not when something’s going on."

Paul shook his head again. "Nothing’s going on."

"Then why are you two awake?" Adam looked from Paul to Scott, who shrugged.

"Can’t sleep," Scott replied.

Paul approached the window. Gesturing outside, he admitted, "I’ve been watching this guy." He tapped his fingers on the glass.

Adam got to his feet and looked out the window. "Who, the Chili Peppers’ driver? How long has he been out there?"

"Over an hour," Scott replied, staring at the lit-up bus.

"At least," Paul added. He thumped his finger on the glass.

"We should go check on him then." Midsentence, Adam headed for the door. "Wait for me though. I should put some more clothes on."

"Please!" Paul smirked. Moments later, Adam emerged from his room in a fuzzy white robe and black Converse sneakers. The trio plodded down the stairs, then out to the parking lot.

Mike opened the bus door when Paul, Scott, and Adam were several feet away. Paul grimaced at the bus driver. "Hi!"

Stepping aside, Mike admitted the three onto the tour bus. "What are you all doing here?" he asked. He eyed Adam, who grinned.

"Just seeing what you’re up to!" Adam replied, his voice a bit too sunny. "Are you okay?"

Slowly, Mike nodded. "Just worried about the band is all."

Placing a hand on Mike’s shoulder, Adam said, "You called the police, man. You’ve done all that you can."

"F*** the cops!" Mike exclaimed, startling Adam, who hopped back a step. "They won’t do jack sh**! I could only remember half the plate number. They say these people are impossible to track."

"Some people, dressed as cops," Scott inquired, "just pulled you over for drugs?"

"Yeah, I know!" Mike ran a hand through his jet-black hair. "I should have realised they were fakes!"

"But no one was following you or anything..." Adam trailed off. He furrowed his eyebrows.

Mike shook his head. "I look out for that kind of sh**! No telling what kind of loony’d tail a tour bus!" Mike glanced at three sets of concern-ridden eyes before saying, "Listen, while we’re all up, does anybody want something to eat or drink? I’m needing something sweet. I think my blood sugar’s low."

Paul made eye contact with Mike. "Could I get something to drink?"

"Yeah." Swiping a hand through the air, he added, "You all can come on back."

Mike led them to the kitchen area of the Chili Peppers’ tour bus. Paul and Adam slid onto a bench, and Scott sat across from them. Paul’s foot hit against a solid object.

"’The hell?" Paul leaned under the table and retrieved a laptop computer. "Why’s this on the floor?"

Mike, who was opening the refrigerator, glanced over his shoulder. Turning back to the food, he replied, "Must have falled off the table when those sh**-faced cops stopped us."

Paul slid it in front of Adam.

"It’s still on," Adam observed, watching crazy trolls topple into one another on the computer screen. "Was somebody using it?"

"Yeah," Mike retrieved a well-endowed grapevine from the fridge. He ate a grape before adding, "Anthony and Chad were back here. I heard them talking about something they’d read on the Internet."

Scott and Adam’s eyes widened simultaneously. Paul glanced from one to the other. "What?"

Adam jiggled the mouse. When windows on the desktop emerged, he smiled. "One of them was IMing!"

Scott leaned across the table. "Can you get the IP address of the other user?"

Paul found his bewildered expression mirrored in Mike’s face. "’The hell are you talking about?"

Pointing at the computer screen with his left hand, Adam explained, "One of the Chili Peppers was writing instant messages to someone else on AOL, or someone with AIM, er, AOL instant messenger. Somebody named BASKITKAYS... how fitting. This must be the kidnapper."

Mike thrust a thumb in Scott’s direction. "And what does he want you to do?"

"Basically," Adam sighed, typing away on the keyboard, "find the address of the other computer, the one BASKITKAYS was using. The only way I know to do that..." His hands fell still, and Adam turned to Mike. "Is there a printer for this computer?"

"Yeah." Mike opened a cabinet by the refrigerator and pulled up a portable printer. He unfolded it on the table and plugged it into place.

"Pretty nifty," Paul commented, staring at the printer. It came to life and spat out the requested document. When the printer fell silent, Adam removed the page from the output tray. He smiled. "Got it!"

"Great!" Paul raised an eyebrow. "But how does that help?"

"The police can get a street address for the user from the server," Scott replied, and Adam shook his head.

"We can do better than that."

Dial tone filled the kitchen area. In loud beeps, AOL dialed up for connection. Screeching static resounded off the walls, then...

"Welcome!" AOL greeted Adam. "You’ve got mail!"

Adam’s fingers raced across the keyboard. "You can get street addresses right off the Internet," he stated. He fixed his eyes on the number on the printout as he typed it. "There are services that {+}{can}ca get it for you if you have the IP." He scanned the text on the screen. A smile swept across his face. "Gotcha!"

"Guys," Paul sat back in his seat. "What if it’s not the kidnappers? What if it’s really just some kid?"

Adam turned to his bandmate. "We can go down there!" he suggested. "We’ll see if anything’s going on, see if we see a Chili Pepper, check out car plates. And if we’re wrong, we’re wrong."

Silence.

Scott smirked. "Not like we were getting any sleep!"

"Um," Paul voiced, gaining everybody’s attention. "I don’t think it’s a good idea to take a tour bus."

Adam furrowed his eyebrows. "But what else do we have?"

"Marisol’s car," Paul replied. "She drove up here to see Rob." He turned to Mike and Scott. "Marisol is Rob’s wife." The two nodded. "You think she’d mind?"

"I’ll go ask her for the keys," Adam replied. He headed for the front of the bus. When Adam reached the door, Paul called out, "He, Adam?"

"Yeah?"

"Make sure you put on some clothes too!"


	8. Revival

10:35 PM, Thursday

Flea leaned over his legs, straining with every shallow breath he took. Knelt by his bandmate’s side, Chad watched the colour drain from Flea’s face.

Myra put an arm around the fallen. Gazing into Chad’s eyes, she asked, "Is he allergic to anything?"

Chad shook his head, his sights trained on his friend. Flea’s eyes rolled back into his head, and his eyelids closed. Across the room, John screamed. Chad glanced from one friend to the other, thoughts spiraling through his head. Flea panted beside him. John continued to scream. Myra looked upon him with such desperation. Fear wracked through Chad’s body, John’s cries through the drummer’s mind. Swallowing hard, he reached for Flea’s hand. He took it into his own and gave it a squeeze. Flea’s fingers pressed into the side of Chad’s pinkie finger.

Flea gasped, taking in a full breath of oxygen. The muscles in his face relaxed as he sat back and opened his eyes. John fell silent.

Chad looked at John, still swaying forward and back, hands covering his face. Then he looked to Flea. The bass player furrowed his eyebrows, holding his hands to his temples. Rosy hues seeped back into his cheeks.

"What the hell just happened?" Chad questioned. He passed a water bottle to his friend, who accepted it. Flea just shook his head.

CLICK! WHOOSH!

Myra, Chad, and Flea turned to the steps as Lloyd descended them. Gun in hand. "Okay, we’re going!" he growled. "Myra, go find something to do!"

"Anthony’s out of the trunk," Flea murmured. His eyes lit up, and he said, "You just got him out of the trunk, and you resuscitated him."

Lloyd scowled. "Now how the hell did you... look, I don’t care! Just get moving!"

Flea and Chad got to their feet and looked at John.

"Hey!" Lloyd yelled at the Chili Pepper. "Get off your lazy f***ing ass!"

John’s shudder was his only response. Lloyd marched over to him, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him to his feet.

"NOW, you little sh**!" Lloyd waved Flea and Chad ahead of him, then proceeded to drag John up the steps.

Pitch and chirping crickets greeted the Chili Peppers at the top of the staircase. Just beyond the door stood Josh, gun in hand. He led the group to a dark blue SUV and opened the passenger’s side rear door. "Get in!" he hollered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chad caught a streak of forest green. He turned and watched as Myra ran toward them, to Josh’s side. Wrapping her hands around his arm, Myra cried, "Please let them go!"

"Myra, baby," Josh spoke quietly to her. "You stay out of this, okay?"

Her eyes squinted and welled up. Gazing at Josh, she said, "But honey..."

"You don’t understand, sweetheart. We need to." Josh gestured toward the door with his gun. He turned to Flea and Chad and said, "Get in!"

Flea climbed into the car first. He slid across the seats and settled behind the driver’s side. As Chad stepped into the car, he heard Myra’s whisper to Josh.

"If you would only tell them why! You don’t need to threaten them."

Chad turned and watched their exchange. Josh sighed. Putting his free arm over Myra’s shoulder, he drew her close to himself. She lowered her head as he spoke. "I’ll see you tomorrow night, baby. Okay?"

No response. Josh sighed.

"Hey! Look at me?"

Myra raised her head.

"I love you."

Furrowing her eyebrows, Myra replied, "I love you too. Be careful though, for yourself and for them."

A smile played across Josh’s lips. "What about Lloyd?"

"That bastard can go to hell," Myra huffed.

"Hey!" Lloyd exclaimed as he approached, John’s collar in hand. "I hear that, b****!" He shoved John into the car and slammed the door. Myra put her hands on her hips and retorted to Lloyd, her voice merely a hum to those within the car. Chad shifted his attention from the outsiders to the shivering individual beside him. Head tilted down, eyes staring blankly ahead, John quivered behind the passenger’s seat. His fingers wrapped around his clay flannel biceps, gripping with knuckle-whitening force, whitening even though caked with mud.

"Hey guys."

The ragged, familiar voice came from behind them. The three looked over their shoulders. Draped across the hatchback, sporting bruises and weary eyes, was Anthony. He shot them a droopy smile. Flea’s eyes lit up, and Chad smiled.

"Swan!" John exclaimed. In one fluid motion, he leapt over the seat and slid into the hatchback beside his friend. John flung his arms around his bandmate.

"Hey, careful there," Anthony winced, then smiled. "I’m a little sore."

Sitting back on his heels, John lowered his head. "Sorry, man."

Anthony shook his head. "Nah, it’s all right. I appreciated the hug. Really needed it, brother." He glanced from Chad to Flea; both were beaming at him. "You boys okay?"

"Are we..." Flea trailed off. He wagged his head. "F***! We weren’t the ones crammed in a trunk! YOU okay?"

"What you see is what you get," Anthony replied with a smirk. "Hey, could have been a lot worse."

"No sh**!" Chad mumbled.

WHOOSH!

Lloyd stood by the now open hatchback, scowling at John.

"What the hell are you doing back here?" he growled, pointing his gun at him. "You get your ass back where it belongs!"

John scampered over the seat. Shifting his attention to Anthony, Lloyd spoke in a low, even tone. "Now I know you can escape, but you even think about it...," He paused, narrowing his eyes and waving his gun toward John, "and I swear, I’m gonna kill that one."

Lloyd shook his head. As he lowered the hatchback, he muttered, "That kid’s a real pain in the ass anyway."

Heavy footsteps fell along Flea’s side of the car and stopped when the driver’s door opened. Lloyd climbed in and slammed the door behind him. The SUV set off into the night.


	9. Hard Knox

1:04 AM, Friday

Rain pelted on the rooftop of a shadowy SUV as it ascended a slippery dirt road. Tears streaked through Flea’s window, through his view of eerie deciduous trees. He pulled his bare arms into the sleeves of his T-shirt and hugged them to his chest. He sighed.

Warm air breathed by his left side, tickling his ear. "Hey, buddy," a whisper accompanied the breath. "You awake?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Flea’s eyes met with his friend’s. The moonlight illuminated Anthony’s face, spotlighting the injuries there. Left cheekbone swollen and purple, right temple gray. A crusted crimson stripe ran across his chin. Flea winced. His eyes watered. He took a deep breath before whispering, "Yeah, I’m awake. How’s the view back there?"

Anthony cracked a smile. Nodding his head toward the window, he said, "Probably better than yours. I have a bigger window."

The two chuckled quietly, then fell into silence. Flea swallowed hard. His eyes grew wide as he voiced, "Anthony? We were really worried about you, buddy."

"I know." Anthony pursed his lips and smiled. Rapping a fist to his chest, he added, "I felt your pain. Right here. And though it hurt like hell, it was really beautiful, man. And it helped me through."

"You were losing air," Flea breathed, and raised his eyebrows.

Slowly, Anthony nodded. He looked Flea in the eye. "You felt that too."

"Yeah."

Anthony grimaced. "But we got through that. And we’ll get past this too. It’ll all be okay."

The SUV turned left, onto a packed dirt road. The wheels sloshed through tire treads embossed into the mud. Glancing out the window, Flea saw a sign. Chipping white paint covered the wooden surface, the words "Hard Knox Trailer Park" hand-painted in blue. Mobile homes lined either side of the SUV. As the vehicle bumped down the road, the trailers became few and far between. The SUV rolled to a stop in front of the one the furthest away from the entrance. Water rippled down its shady panels. An awning over the front door sheltered a square concrete porch and the steps leading to it.

The door beside Flea opened. Rapid waterfire shot at him, drenching his T-shirt with seconds’ exposure.

"Out of the car," Lloyd’s voice huffed from behind the door. As Flea set a foot down in the mud, a whisper swept through his left ear.

"I’m with you buddy, all the way."

Lloyd stood in front of the car with Chad and Flea before him. Rain poured over their heads, down their shoulders, legs, and onto the ground. Across from them, John hung his head and stooped beside Anthony, before Josh.

Josh’s hands went to his pockets. They patted at them frantically. His eyes widened and gazed at Lloyd. His mouth dropped oven. "I can’t, I can’t find my gun."

"But I can."

A shadow stepped behind Josh, one considerably shorter but just as lean. Shocks of moonlight glinted off the glasses of the stranger...

And off the gun he held to Josh’s midsection.

"Lloyd!" Josh whimpered, and Lloyd’s hands dropped to his side.

The figure shifted his gun to point at Lloyd. "I so wouldn’t do that. That might piss me off."

As the newcomer trained his gun at Lloyd, Josh lunged at him. A shot fired into the mud, and Josh slugged his opponent in the gut. A grunt escaped the stranger’s lips. Lloyd’s hands dropped to his sides again and patted down empty pockets.

"I don’t think so," a voice behind Lloyd chuckled. Flea turned and found Adam Gaynor holding the gun to the ground. Glancing back at the sight of the brawl, Flea saw a taller, muscular shadow of an individual holding Josh’s arms behind his back. The shorter figure was rubbing his side and aiming Josh’s gun at Lloyd.

"What do you want?" Josh whined, arching his back as the individual behind him tightened his grasp on Josh’s arms. The two figures stepped forward, pushing Josh along with them. They walked into a ray from the moon. Light spilled over their features, revealing their identities. Scott Stapp held the goon; Paul Doucette held the gun.

"We just want you to let our friends go," Scott replied.

Lloyd’s face sunk. He closed his eyes and sighed. Then he looked at each of the Chili Peppers. "Fellahs," his voice was barely audible over the rain, "there’s a reason why we kidnapped you. Hear me out?"

Anthony exchanged glances with Flea and Chad across the way before crossing his soaking sore arms over his chest. "We’re listening."

Lloyd sighed. "I, I need your help." Pointing to the house, he continued. "My wife’s inside, dying because of a brain tumour. All she ever wanted in this life was to hear her favourite band play. And that’s you guys."

Paul lowered his gun as Lloyd spoke. Scott loosened his grip on Josh’s arms and let go. Josh wandered to Lloyd’s side.

Lloyd laughed. "I know, can you believe it? Of all the f***ing bands out there, she adores YOU punks." He shook his head, his smile faded. "Anyway, it would mean a lot to her if you would play for her. She..."

"We’ll do it," John’s voice broke in, clear and bold over the pelting rain. All eyes fell on him as he looked at Lloyd, then lowered his head again.

Anthony looked from Chad to Flea before turning to Lloyd. "Yeah," he said, "we’ll play for her."

Lloyd’s almost friendly expression clouded over with a scowl. "All right. Let’s get out of this rain." He ascended his porch steps, Flea, Chad, and Anthony following him. John scuffled into the house in front of Josh.

Scott, Adam, and Paul stood in the rain, staring at each other.

"Is it just me," Paul raised his voice over the splashing rain, "or is this REALLY weird?"

Scott nodded, and Adam shrugged. "Hey," Adam replied. "There’s nothing to worry about now. Let’s just go in, get warmed up and dry, and enjoy the free concert."

Scott’s arms hugged his torso as he shook his head. "I don’t know about that, Adam. How come that guy didn’t look so happy about having the Chili Peppers play when he says that’s why he kidnapped them?"

Silence.

"Let’s just go in," Adam pleaded. And they did.


	10. In Concert

1:28 AM, Friday

Chad slid onto the stool behind a modest drum kit set up in the middle of the living room / kitchen. Taking up the drumsticks laying across the snare drum, he watched as John slipped a guitar strap over his shoulder and Flea held a beat-up bass. Paul, Scott, and Adam stepped into the room and plopped down on the floor space in front of the Chili Peppers.

John strummed the guitar in his hands and adjusted the string tension accordingly. Flea ripped off an intense beat before looking up from the bass, at Lloyd, who stood by a dark, narrow hallway.

"Whose instruments are these?" Flea asked.

Lloyd heaved a sigh. "That bass there you’re holding is my buddy Rick’s." He tossed his left arm into the air, toward the drum set. "Those drums belong to Josh."

Josh, who stood in the tiled section of the room, waved when everyone looked at him.

"And that there guitar," he pointed to the instrument in John’s hands. Sighing, he said, "That there is mine."

John stared at the guitar before asking, "What’s the name of your band?"

"Mos Eisley," Lloyd replied, monitoring his shoes. "You know, from Star Wars?"

"Mos Eisley," Josh repeated, then quoted the movie. "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy."

"Ya GOTTA be cautious," Lloyd added, exchanging a smirk with his bandmate. His smile faded, his sites returned to the floor. "Just like Mos Eisley in the movie, we’re out in the middle of nowhere, going nowhere." His eyes followed his hand up to the wall, where his fingers traced the hallway corner. "We’ve been playing for years at the Waterhouse, this bar in town. A lot of bands perform there." He glared at Anthony. "If y’all were to go sometime, you’d realise just how much your band sucks! So much damn talent at that place, but who do people notice, huh? Fancy pansy bands with no talent, no originality, no soul." Lloyd shifted his piercing stare to Scott on the floor. "And don’t think I didn’t recognise you and your bandmates, Mr. Creed! Just to let you know, y’all are only slightly better than they are." He thrust a thumb at the Chili Peppers.

Anthony stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. He saw Adam and Paul raise an eyebrow to one another and watched Scott unfold then refold his legs Indian-style.

Steamed breath escaped Lloyd’s lips. He turned from the scene and walked down the hallway. He marched all the way to the end and slipped into the master bedroom.

A chill hung in the air. The heater kicked on, the vent by Anthony’s foot squeaked rhythmically as warm air tossed a loose plate of metal to and fro. Puffs of heat entered the room, never reaching anything but the side of Anthony’s left sneaker. The three by the wall huddled together and shivered in their drenched clothing. Chad tapped out a beat on the snare drum. All eyes were on him until slippered feet pattered down the hallway.

A woman slipped into the room. She had strawberry blond fuzz on the top of her head, a layer pale enough to expose white surgical scars across the base of her skull. Her skin was so white that it was transparent. At first glance, Anthony thought she was a teenage girl. She had chubby little cheeks and a cute button nose, and her white terry clothed robe sported Winnie the Pooh on the pocket. Looking into her blue/gray eyes, however, packed years onto her appearance. Anthony guessed that she had spent her whole life in Virginia, in this same city, living in trailers like or worse than this one.

Her eyes met with Anthony’s, her mouth dropped open. She turned to her husband, who stepped up behind her.

"Wha... how did you...," she glanced back at the Chili Peppers. "I can’t believe this!"

Her tired eyes were open as wide as they could; her excitement came off as mild amusement. Anthony saw that she was exhausted.

"Sweetheart," Lloyd’s gruff voice smoothened into a whisper, "they’re here to play for you. Sit down, honey, and they’ll play."

Lloyd’s wife rested her back against the wall space beside Paul. She eased herself to the floor, heaving a sigh as she settled on the stained gray carpet. She sat across from Anthony, under a standing lamp. The light from it highlighted her sunken eye cavities and the pale purple rings that lined them. She gazed up at Anthony with an adoring smile.

Anthony cleared his throat.

"Want some water?" the woman asked. Before she could answer, she turned to Josh. "Can you please get them some water?" she asked. Recognition flashed in her eyes when they rested on the three to her right. She raised an eyebrow. "matchbox twenty and Creed are here too?"

Scott shook his head. "No, just the three of us."

Paul’s eyes widened behind his glasses as he looked her in the eye. "I'd be REALLY confused too."

"I know I am!" Adam exclaimed. Josh handed him a glass of water, which he accepted.

Anthony took a gulp of his water. Over the glass, he looked at Lloyd’s wife as she looked at him. He lowered the glass and set it on a side table. "What should we play?"

"Can I request two songs?"

Cracking a smile, Anthony replied, "Girl, you can request as many as you want."

She opened her mouth.

"I know what you’re going to say, Maggie," Lloyd murmured from where he sat beside her. "That bridge one... ‘Under the Bridge’."

She nodded and cuddled up to his chest. "You know me too well, honey. And?" She peered at him from under his chin.

"‘Breaking the Girl’."

Maggie nuzzled her head into his neck and smiled serenely.

John and Flea picked out the first few chords of "Under the Bridge", heads down, immersed in the music, one with it. Then Anthony came in:

"Sometimes I feel like I don’t have partner  
Sometimes I feel like my only friend  
Is the city I live in, the city of angels  
Lonely as I am, together we cry"

Chad’s gentle drumbeat slid in and slipped into place.

"I drive on her streets ‘cause she’s my companion  
I walk through her hills ‘cause she knows who I am  
She seems my good deeds and she kisses me windy  
I never worry, now that is a lie"

Anthony flopped onto the floor, inches away from Maggie’s folded legs. She watched him, staring deep into his eyes, tears in her own threatening to spill down her porcelain face. Anthony closed his eyes and poured himself into the chorus, his body shaking as he sang:

"And I don’t ever want to feel  
Like I did that day  
Take me to the place I love  
Take me all the way  
I don’t ever want to feel  
Like I did that day  
Take me to the place I love  
Take me all the way -yeah  
Ay - yeah"

Flea slid onto the carpet diagonally to Anthony’s right. His legs stretched out in front of him, the bass propped on his legs. He never missed a beat.

"It’s hard to believe that there’s nobody out there  
It’s hard to believe that I’m all alone  
At least I have her love, the city she loves me  
Lonely as I am, together we cry

"And I don’t ever want to feel  
Like I did that day  
Take me to the place I love  
Take me all the way  
I don’t ever want to feel  
Like I did that day  
Take me to the place I love  
Take me all the way yeah  
yay yeah..."

John sunk to his knees in front of Adam, strumming away on the guitar. His face muscles tightened, his eyes closed, as he belted out, "Under the bridge downtown..."

"Is where I drew some blood"

"Under the bridge downtown..."

"I could not get enough"

"Under the bridge downtown..."

"Forgot about my love"

"Under the bridge downtown..."

"I gave my life away..."

John and Anthony sang together to the beat, until the song wound down, the last drum beat resonated, the last strums of the guitar faded out of existence. Four of the five sitting against the wall broke into applause. Anthony opened his eyes to find Maggie watching him. A sniffle from his left turned Anthony’s attention to the men seated there. Adam was wiping tears from his cheeks when he realised he had an audience. His hands dropped to his sides, and he looked John in the eye.

"You rock," Adam stated.

Shaking his head, John replied, "It’s the spirits that rock. They speak to me through emotions, and I play how I feel."

Lloyd laughed. John stared at him, the look in his eyes laced with confusion. Shrugging, he turned back to Adam. "That’s how I see it," he informed the rhythm guitarist, then sat back on his heels.

*****

As "Breaking the Girl" faded out, tears were streaming down Maggie’s face. She rubbed her eyes, sniffling. The three to her right were clapping insanely. When their applause died down, she whispered, "I’m sorry. That song just brings back a lot of memories." She pulled closer to her husband, who wore the same scowl he’d sported most of the time the Chili Peppers played.

Maggie gazed up at him. "Lloyd, honey, what’s wrong?"

Thrusting his left index finger at Anthony, he asked, "You connect with HIS music, right?" He spoke the word "his" with disdain. Maggie nodded.

"But, baby," she replied, "It’s not just his music. It’s the four of them together, and that their sound," she held her right hand to her heart, "makes sense."

"Fine!" Lloyd scoffed. "THEIR music!"

"Lloyd?"

All eyes fell on John, who was pulling the guitar strap off his shoulders. Handing the guitar to Lloyd, he stated, "You should play now."

Raising an eyebrow, Lloyd accepted the guitar. "Okay, fine. But we’re playing MY songs." He got to his feet and plodded down the hallway. He emerged from a side room with a handful of paper. He sorted through the pages, pulled out a few, and handed them to Chad. "And here are the tabs," he mumbled, passing some pages to Flea. The two looked over the sheets as Lloyd sat down beside his wife. He and Flea strummed the first few chords, Chad tapped out the beat, and Lloyd sang:

"You can search far and wide  
You can set sail with the tide  
Look under rocks and in trees  
In far off countries - overseas  
You can search imagination  
For the man of your creation  
But what you’ll find in all you see  
Is inaccessibility  
‘Twas just your fantasies"

Lloyd went into a guitar riff, his eyes steady on his wife as his fingers raged across the strings.

"The only man who's here is me  
One you know will never leave  
Even when you wake from dreams  
And find he’s nothing as he seems  
When pop bands all disappear  
You know that I will still be here

"And so will come your search’s end  
For I have always been your friend  
And I will always be your man"

Chad sat back. Guitar strings ceased to vibrate.

Maggie and Lloyd gazed deep into one another’s eyes, both crying. She flung her arms around her husband’s neck and breathed, "Honey, that was beautiful."

He leaned in to kiss her when sirens resounded in the distance.

"Oh, sh**," Scott muttered under his breath. "I forgot I’d called the cops."


	11. The Silver Lining

5:00 AM, Friday

A caravan of cars drove through the rain, out of the trailer park. A police car led the way, one with Anthony and Flea in it. Marisol’s black Cadillac followed with Scott behind the wheel, Paul beside him, and Adam in the back seat. A second police car drove last as the caboose.

John and Chad waved out the rear window at the couple standing out on their porch. Lloyd and Maggie were in one another’s arms, beaming, and the two in the back of the police car grinned.

When the couple disappeared from sight, John turned around and settled into his cushion with a sigh.

"You boys hungry?" the officer driving asked his passengers.

"Hell yeah!" John exclaimed.

The officer picked up his radio receiver. "Let’s stop for breakfast at Mama’s Kitchen, folks, over," he spoke into it, holding down a side button.

Static. "Ten-four."

Shaking his head, the officer pressed the button and said, "Ray, we shouldn’t use police code for now."

"We understood that one," Paul’s voice crinkled over the radio. "Stopping to eat sounds good, over."

Silence for miles until the radio came to life again.

"John Frusciante, can you hear me?"

John jumped in his seat. The officer passed him the receiver, which he accepted.

"Yeah?"

"John," Chad leaned over and pointed to the side button. "Press that when you’re talking."

Holding down the button, John repeated himself. "Yeah?"

"This is Adam Gaynor. Look at the car in front of you."

John leaned into the front seat and saw the dark haired man smiling and waving at him, holding up the radio receiver with his other hand. John watched as Adam pressed his receiver’s button and spoke.

"Hi! Um... you know how you were talking about spirits communicating through you?" Adam ran a hand through his hair. "How do they do it? Do you have dreams?"

"They just speak through me," John replied, "when I’m receptive."

"How do you become receptive?"

John sat back in his seat. He pressed the side button and said, "I work to make myself pure."

Pause.

"Can you," Adam’s staticy voice returned, "can you teach me when we get back?"

"Okay."

John was about to hand the receiver back when Paul’s voice came over the airway.

"Me too?"

"And me?" Scott’s question snuck in before John could answer Paul’s. John held the receiver to his mouth.

"Okay."

The officer accepted the receiver back from John, just as Anthony’s voice crackled over the radio. "Hey, John! Looks like you have a fan club!"

John laughed, and Chad joined in. Their sights drifted out the window.

"Hey," Chad commented. "It stopped raining."

"Hey, everyone!" Adam’s voice came over the airways. "Look to your left! There’s a rainbow!"

Indeed there was a rainbow, its soft pastel hues painted across the sky on the horizon. John smiled at it.

"What could be better than a rainbow?"

*****

Several days later, Lloyd’s wife Maggie went for an MRI. It came back clear. Her brain tumour was gone.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers continued their tour with matchbox twenty and Creed. The three bands brought much joy to their fans, just as each band had done from its inception, just as each band always will.

THE END


End file.
